I tried my best, but my reflexes were slow, and I tended to jump backward whenever my opponent came within striking distance of me wielding a practice sword. The only times I managed to hold my ground against Baridya or Tessie were during the long practice sessions when I had drained enough energy from everyone around me that they grew sluggish.
Through it all, Viko lingered on the periphery of our work, taking part when Mellicante dragged him along but otherwise hiding in his room or watching from afar. He drank heavily whenever he could get his hands on alcohol, and Mellicante confessed she had caught him standing at the edge of the cliff once, contemplating throwing himself off. My friends and I fretted about him and tried to coax him into becoming an integral part of our work, but the more we tried, the more he withdrew.
Summer had truly taken hold by now, and small fruits began to swell on the branches of trees in the governor’s garden. This close to the ocean, the hottest days were still mild despite the long hours of sunshine, and most mornings started beneath a cloak of fog.
Though at times it seemed life went on as always, subtle signs of neglect were appearing around the manor. With such a reduced staff and so many other concerns besides upkeep, weeks were growing among the flowers, tidily squared-off hedges had new branches shooting off at random angles, and fruit rotted on the ground.
Within the manor, dust was left to settle in any spaces we did not regularly use, and a trail of muddy footprints led from the garden, where Rona and her helpers were hard at work digging rocks for the wall, into the kitchen. Magreeda rationed our food deliveries as best she could, but with her new responsibilities, she frequently cooked one-pot stews or great roasts for dinner.
Though the Whitish uniforms we wore as we stood watch outside the front entrance kept visitors away, I remained on edge, flinching at every creak of hinges or scrape of branches against the window. Everything rested on our ability to protect the estate from prying Whitish eyes. If they discovered our subterfuge, it would be over.
* * *
Twelve days after my father and Dellik left, our first supporters began to arrive.
First came a pair of brothers, one still in his teens, the other a few years my senior. Both had the dark skin that indicated a magical bloodline, and the older said he was a Rider. I was intrigued; I had never met anyone with that talent before.
“What sort of animal have you bonded with?” I asked, hoping it was not an indecent question.
“A dolphin,” he said, back straightening in pride. “So it’s lucky this place is close to the ocean.”
We set up beds for them in one of the guestrooms the Whitish guards had vacated, and fed them huge bowls of soup—both ate ravenously. They told us they had traveled from the Village of a Thousand Stairs, and that they had run most of the way.
That night, I asked Baridya what exactly a Rider’s power was; I did not want to appear ignorant before my subjects.
“They bond with an animal, as you said—it happens very young, sometimes before they can even walk. The animal grows larger than normal, large enough to be ridden by its human, and the two share sensations, emotions, maybe even thoughts.”
Baridya pulled aside the curtains of my bedchamber to gaze out at the ocean, as though searching for the young man’s dolphin. “They’re quite mysterious about the whole thing, so no one knows how far the bond goes. But I do know this—if one dies, the other cannot survive much longer. The bonded animal lives for a human lifespan, but if one is injured or falls ill…”
“I didn’t realize people could bond with sea creatures,” I said.
“I haven’t heard of it either. I always thought the bond required time spent close together, but how can a dolphin live alongside a human?”
“Maybe that’s why he was so proud of his bond. Because it’s rare.”
Baridya nodded, looking thoughtful. “If he were a sailor, it would be considered an auspicious sign. Dolphins are said to be symbols of good fortune for ships at sea.”
* * *
The next arrivals were a family of what looked like refugees that had encountered my father as they traveled to Larkhaven. They did not speak of what had befallen them, but none of them looked like they would be capable of fighting. Their daughters were younger than ten, and the father walked with a pronounced limp.
That same day, a young woman with dusty black hair arrived and knelt before me with a look of desperate hope in her eyes.
“Your Majesty.” She tilted her head back so she could see me from where she knelt. “I’ve heard that you possess a forbidden power, and that you wish to give the forbidden races a place within Itrea.”
I took her hand and pulled her to her feet. We were alone apart from Quendon, still standing guard by the front doors, and the blacksmith, who was just now fastening the first set of iron grates over our ground-floor windows. “Will you join me for tea?”
“Gladly.”
Once we were sequestered in a cozy little sitting-room on the second story, where the blacksmith’s hammering faded into the distance, I poured her a cup of lavender tea and settled on the plush chair across from her.
“What is your power, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The young woman rolled up one sleeve, which had previously draped over her hand. A hideous, ridged scar ran from the back of her wrist up her arm until it disappeared beneath her sleeve; amidst the puffy, badly-healed flesh, I thought I could see flecks of something black, almost like scales.
I felt pity mixed with revulsion, and fought to keep my emotions from showing on my face.
“Do you know what these are?”
I shook my head.
“There are many names for me, but the kindest is Curse-Weaver.”
The term was familiar, but Mother had never taken the time to describe the many forbidden races—like most others, she thought they were best ignored. Except in the case of her own precious daughter, of course.
“I was born with black ridges like bat wings growing all along my arms and down my back—people say my blood comes from a winged demon crossed with a human woman.”
“Why the scars?” I asked softly.
The woman gave a harsh laugh. “Those hideous growths give us the power to lay curses on others. If they are cut out, we are harmless.”
“Why aren’t you allowed in Baylore, then? Surely anyone can see your power is gone.”
“No, of course not.” The woman lifted her tea, breathed in the steam rising from the cup, and set it back down. “Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I thought you were an advocate for the forbidden races. I thought you knew these things. I thought—” She sighed and changed tack. “There is nothing rational about the persecution of the forbidden races. Yes, some might genuinely be dangerous, but surely a Flamespinner could cause much more harm by setting an old wooden building alight than someone like you ever would.”
“I know so little,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid you have put too much faith in me. I harbored two men with my power, but that was all I ever did for the forbidden races. Most of my rule was spent trying to outmaneuver my enemies. You can see how well that went.” A note of bitterness had crept into my tone. “I wanted to do more for the forbidden races, but Baylore was already seconds away from turning against its entire magical population. To speak in favor of people like myself—like you—would have been the spark they needed to start their war.”
“I don’t see how Baylore could be worse than Larkhaven,” the young woman muttered. “I had to move out of the city into an abandoned shack in the countryside several spans ago. But I’ll take your word for it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. My words sounded hollow; I wanted to make things right for her, yet I could not see how.
“Do you know why my arms are scarred so badly?”
I shook my head.
“Because my parents thought I could learn to control my power. They did not want to subject an infant to such a cruel procedure. It seemed barbaric.
&
nbsp; “When I was old enough to understand what my power was, I tried to use it for good. I cursed a friend to become beautiful and a neighbor’s crops to always yield good harvests. But it turned rotten. Every time.” Her eyes went glassy; she was clearly remembering distant horrors. “One year, a drought ruined all the crops except those belonging to the neighbor I had cursed. Everyone thought he had caused the drought to drive up the prices of his own crops, and the town turned against him, burning down his farmhouse and pillaging his harvest. The next year, a gang of boys cornered my beautiful friend after the midwinter festival and raped her.
“I couldn’t face what I had done to those I cared for. I moved to Larkhaven, where no one would know my name, but before I could find a place to live, I had to remove the ridges from my arms and back. I refused to curse anyone else, whether through carelessness or spite. I was seventeen.
“When infants are given the operation, the scars heal well—they’d still be recognized if they took of their shirts, but they aren’t hideous. For me, it was torture. I bled for days, and used the last of my coins to hire a servant to feed me and dress my wounds.” The woman smiled coldly. “Thankfully I was in Larkhaven at the time. If I had gone to Baylore, I would likely have been burned alive.”
“No,” I said stiffly. “Even in Baylore, it’s not that bad. You would have merely been turned away at the gates.”
“Really?”
Before I could tell the woman how deeply I felt her pain, how I yearned to step back in time and give her an easier path, a knock sounded at the door.
“Your Majesty?” Quendon called from outside. “I’ve just received an urgent message from someone in Baylore.”
“Please come in.”
The door opened to admit a messenger who had evidently ridden hard to reach Larkhaven. His eyes were red and shadowed from lack of sleep, and dust caked his black uniform.
“I was asked to deliver this to Lord Jofran, in hopes he might know where you were.” He bowed and handed me a tightly-coiled scroll.
Disregarding the Curse-Weaver’s curious stare, I broke the seal and unwound the scroll with unsteady hands. Had something befallen Mother? Was she writing to beg me to send for her?
But it was not Mother’s handwriting.
K—
I hope you see this before it falls into the wrong hands.
I was wrong. And now I fear it is too late.
Baylore needs your help.
L
14
A Call for Aid
T hat was Leoth’s handwriting. I was sure of it.
I sat back in the chair, numb with shock. What was Leoth wrong about? Had he realized the Truthbringers were Whitish invaders?
How bad had things gotten in Baylore for him to beg for my return?
Or was it a trap?
“Your Majesty?” Quendon said.
I whirled to face him.
“What news from Baylore?”
“Nothing good. But I don’t know what to make of it yet. Excuse me, I need to speak with my ladies.” I turned to the young woman who watched me, stony-faced. The hope that had lit her face when she arrived was now gone. “Please make yourself at home. Quendon will show you to your new quarters. And I promise—I will do everything I can to right the wrongs done against you and everyone like us. I won’t let us return to the shadows when this fight is done.”
She smiled grimly. “I want to believe you. Let me do what I can to help.”
I found Mellicante and Baridya and summoned them to my bedchamber. As soon as we were alone, Baridya asked, “What’s wrong?” My expression must have given me away.
Handing the scroll wordlessly to her, I sank into a plush chair.
“Baylore needs your help,” Baridya murmured. “What does that mean? Have you heard any word since we left?”
“Nothing. I had thought Mother would write, but there’s no way for her letters to find us here.”
“Who is ‘L’?” Baridya asked.
I swallowed. “That’s Leoth. I recognize his hand.”
“Why would King Leoth write to you?” Mellicante asked suspiciously. “After everything he’s done, how can he expect you to come to his rescue? I know he saved your life, but that hardly cancels out the fact that he turned our capital over to the Truthbringers.”
Baridya gave me a curious look. “Was there something between you?”
I hesitated—I had not told them about my brief affair with Leoth. I would not share that heartbreak with anyone. “We briefly shared friends in common, and when we discussed our policies, we were not so different. For a while I thought it was Leoth’s father who pushed for the persecution of the magic races, not Leoth himself.”
“What changed?” Baridya asked.
“He blackmailed my dearest friend to force her to vote against me,” I said coldly. “He is every bit as cruel and scheming as his father. I suspect this is a trap designed to lure us back to Baylore before our forces are strong enough to overthrow the Whitish.”
“But we haven’t heard any word from your family,” Baridya said. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe the Whitish have openly seized control. Can we ignore his warning?”
“Our intentions are the same either way. We must free Larkhaven so we can march on Baylore. If Leoth is right and Baylore is in trouble, we need to return to Baylore as soon as we can.”
I reached for the parchment and read Leoth’s words once more, searching for hidden meaning that refused to emerge. Did his handwriting look hurried, sloppy? Or was I imagining it?
“We will march on Baylore at the end of Elvret-span.” It was the last span of summer, which would have us arriving before fall had sunk its fingers too deeply into the earth. “No matter what it takes, we need to secure Larkhaven before then. If we don’t have enough fighters to do it by force, we need to come up with a different way.”
* * *
Word quickly spread through the manor—we would be marching for Baylore in less than two spans. And before then, we had to reclaim Larkhaven. Our supporters barely numbered fifteen; the idea of storming the capital was laughable.
I hoped my father and Dellik were safe. If they had been captured or otherwise detained, we had no hope of success.
Our training took on a frantic pace, while I spent more and more time holed up in Lord Jofran’s study, searching his documents for any thread of hope. No political machinations would save us now; we had no allies to turn to, no one to bribe, no one to persuade. It was just us and our pitiful force against the might of the Whitish Empire.
More than once, Mellicante, Baridya, and I discussed the possibility of sending pleas for help to the Kinship Thrones. Though all nine kingdoms ostensibly belonged to the Whitish Empire, many opposed Whitland indirectly, if not outright. Yet we were careful not to mention this idea to our supporters. It had such a slim chance of success that I did not want to give them false hope.
But we would not be able to do this alone. The more my supporters straggled in, the more obvious this became. Itrea could not stand up to Whitland without outside help.
Not knowing if I would be able to deliver them, I began penning letters to the rulers of each of the Kinship Thrones that might support us over Whitland. For the names of the current monarchs, I referenced a great book of records I had found in Lord Jofran’s study, filled with many annotations and crossings-out.
I knew Varrival, the desert kingdom far to the south of Whitland, had a long-standing rivalry with Whitland, as well as a powerful army and a substantial fleet. Yet throughout history, Varrival had chosen not to get involved unless their own land was under threat. I wrote to their king and queen regardless, mentioning that Saniya and her father were happily living in Baylore, but would be persecuted if Whitish forces took over.
The tiny, crescent-shaped kingdom of Cashabree, ringed by high mountains and rumored to be saturated with more magic than Itrea, had remained isolated and secretive ever since the First Fleet colonized Itrea centuries ago. Their entry in the b
ook of records was blank—no one seemed to know who ruled the people of Cashabree, or if there even was a ruler. As far as I knew, there were several distinct races inhabiting the kingdom, none of which paid much attention to one another.
After searching several more history tomes in hopes of learning more about the people of Cashabree, I gave up and simply addressed my letter “To the People of Cashabree.” I was not certain how it would be delivered—Baridya informed me no merchant ships traded with Cashabree due to the high cliffs lining the country’s coast.
Lostport had gained independence from the Kinship Thrones several centuries ago, and had stepped in to help Varrival in battle before, but it was such a tiny, isolated kingdom, so far from Itrea, that it might take a year for my letter to reach it. Yet I had to try.
That left Chelt. The long, narrow coastal kingdom was richest of the Kinship Thrones, and maintained close ties with Whitland. But it was also responsible for most of the trade between Itrea and the Kinship Thrones, and both Mellicante and Baridya assured me that Chelt accepted black-market magical wares at most of its ports.
If we requested help from Chelt, we might alert Whitland to the fact that we hoped to mount a resistance. But if we did not, Chelt would likely join the fight against us—which would cripple us in more ways than one.
After a hard morning of sword practice in the gardens—which were looking bleaker by the day as we uprooted shrubs and flowering bushes to make room for our supporters, who now numbered nearly forty—I asked Mellicante and Baridya to join me for a cool lemon tea in the gazebo.
“What is this about?” Mellicante asked, eyebrows raised delicately as I carried a pitcher of lemon tea and a plate of savory herbed scones to the gazebo. “Are you trying to break bad news to us gently? Surely you haven’t just invited us out here to enjoy the beautiful summer day.”
Renegade Queen : A Court Intrigue Fantasy (The Forbidden Queen Series Book 3) Page 14
